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At long last, he was safe.
“I’m okay,” Sorin choked out between ragged, gasping breaths. His voice was thin with exertion and trembling from the weight of his trauma, but it was hopeful, too. Drained, he dropped his head on Bertram’s shoulder and tucked it against his neck, burrowing under his chin. “It’s just… we don’t have time to wait for Everard. The eggs are coming. There isn’t much time. I don’t know what will happen, but if things go wrong and I lash out with my magic, I need to know you’ll put yourself first. Don’t worry about me. Get out and save yourself, okay?”
“I will not leave you.”
“Bertram.” Sorin wanted to argue, but another contraction shut him down. Crying out in pain, he thrashed and twisted and arched his back, but there was no escaping his own body. It demanded he push, and so Sorin bore down, groaning through his teeth, until it felt like he’d split in two.
It was awful—debilitating—but when the pain subsided, there, between his thighs, was an inky purple dragon egg. Sorin took one look at it and began to cry.
“You are doing amazing,” Bertram praised, reaching around to brush Sorin’s sweat-soaked hair from his brow. “Keep going, love. Three more and your hard work will be over. You’re doing such a wonderful job.”
No sooner had Bertram said it than the next contraction hit, and the second egg descended. Sorin gripped the sides of Bertram’s thighs so tightly he was sure he was causing pain, but Bertram was not deterred. He continued to whisper words of encouragement onto Sorin’s skin until—gasping—Sorin felt himself stretch around the second egg.
It emerged without complication and joined its clutch-mate on the bed.
He didn’t have a chance to catch his breath before the third egg came.
It arrived quickly, and less painfully than the others. Sorin was grateful for it—he was already exhausted and didn’t have it in him to struggle with a difficult delivery.
“One more, love,” Bertram murmured, kissing his hair, his neck, his shoulder. “Just one more. You’ve done so very well.”
One more.
Sorin laughed raggedly. Humorlessly.
During previous pregnancies, the last egg had always been the worst because its arrival meant the whole clutch would be taken away.
But not this time.
Not now, safe in Bertram’s arms.
No one would take these eggs from him. He would bond with them, and whisper to them all the things he’d never gotten to tell his other children. All the secrets of his heart. The depths of his love. He would lounge with them in sunbeams, stroke their shells, drown them in gold.
And he would never have to hear them scream.
One last contraction did it. Sorin threw himself against Bertram and seized both his hands, squeezing them with all his might as he pushed the final egg into the world. When it was done, Bertram nuzzled the side of his head as the love between them pooled like liquid gold in Sorin’s chest.
“I am so proud of you,” Bertram whispered, and Sorin started to sob.
He was proud of himself, too.
* * *
When Everard and Harry finally did arrive, it was to find Sorin and Bertram in the nursery, curled up in the egg bed, their clutch safe and warm between them. All of the eggs were viable and in perfect condition, four jewels in vibrant blackberry hues ready to be spoiled and loved beyond measure.
And loved they were.
Sorin could not stop touching them, running his fingertips over their shells and gathering them one at a time into his arms. He poured his adoration for them into the egg bond, letting them know how loved they were, and while he couldn’t tell for sure, it felt a lot to him like Bertram was doing the same.
“Four more Drakes,” Everard declared once the examination was over, shaking his head. His shirt was misbuttoned—an oddity for someone so solipsistic. It made Sorin think the “buffet” must have been very good. “At this rate, we’ll need a glossary to remember everyone’s names. In any case, congratulations, brother. I hope this means we’ll be seeing more of you at family functions—I speak for all of us when I say we are looking forward to getting to know who you really are now that your dodgy work with the council is over and done with.”
“Aye,” Bertram said, and there was not a touch of Frederich in his voice when he told Everard, “I’m looking forward to it, too.”
35
Bertram
“Hello, Father,” Bertram said solemnly. He stood in the doorway of Grimbold Drake’s study, eyes not on his sire, who was seated in his favorite armchair, but on the roaring fire in the hearth. The logs it sprang up from were cracking, revealing blazing red cores.
